


Paint Me Wings

by noel_fisher



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Drama, Gallavich, Heavy Angst, Hurt Mickey, M/M, Mickey Uses His Words, Mickey-centric, Pining Ian, Post-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noel_fisher/pseuds/noel_fisher
Summary: The term "heartbroken" couldn't even begin to cover up what Mickey felt when he drove away from the border that day. But now he's trying. He's trying and he's hoping he could move on, establish a routine and build a new life in Mexico.But hope ain't ever did jack shit for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Gallavich multi-chap, I hope you enjoy it! Also, in this chapter, I picked off right after the border scene, so you all have to understand that Mickey's quite overwhelmed with emotion. If there're few attacks against Ian in this chapter, its because I intend on writing Mickey's POV accurately, and when the love of your life leaves you a few inches away from crossing the Mexican border, I think you earn a right to be angry, at least for a moment. So yeah, Mickey's feeling angry for a little while. But he'll get over it. Again, I want to focus on Mickey's betterment. The road's gonna get bumpy but my Ukrainian baby's gonna get there, I promise.
> 
> Also, I don't have any idea about Mexican geography so... yeah.

All Mickey could see every time he closes his eyes is red. He’s surprised he had been able to drive away from the border with the color of red in the back of his eyes, little flecks of ginger hair tickling his ducts as if they were urging him to cry, urging him to weep. But he managed. He had managed to drive away, although it took him an almost Herculean effort to will his arms to move and drive his car away from the border, away from the color of red on the other side.

Mickey should’ve known better. When it comes to Gallagher and him, things just always don’t end up well. He’d used his usual scaliness to hide the traces of pain trying to bubble out of him when Ian started crying out his thoughts. Mickey thought, however, that there was something different this time. When Mickey went for Ian after escaping the joint, the first thing he noticed about the younger man is that he seemed healthier. The usual pallor in his cheeks had been gone and was replaced with a tint of live rose. He’d also bulked up even more. He was an EMT, for chrissake. He had a light that could bathe an entire fucking street and it seemed that he had the symptoms of his disorder under full control. 

When he posed his offer for a trip to Mexico, Mickey had given Ian all the time, and although Mickey felt like his bones were trying to escape out of his skin from anxiety, he didn’t do any urging. He waited, he waited and when he got his Let’s ride, it was as if he’d became the personification of a dam breaking. He had been a strong influx of running water, and his relief was all over the place. He was pretty sure it had been evident in the outline of his face back then. 

Mickey allowed himself to think Ian had actually chosen him this time, and that they’d actually be given a chance at a new life. They’d deserved it, Mickey thought, given all the hardships and circumstances they’ve gone through together.

Sadly, with Gallagher, Mickey never learns his lesson.

He should’ve suspected something like this would happen when Mickey’s fuck, I missed you was replied with fucking silence. Damn, he should’ve suspected when Ian told him he had a fucking boyfriend. He had been so dumb.

Of course, he knew Ian had been dating guys; he’s dumb, but not that dumb. At least, he assumed he was dating. The realization hit him right after when Ian visited him that one time, when Mickey vulnerably bared his skin and bones one last time in the hopes that Ian would take his damaged self back. Mickey had stared in his eyes almost pleadingly, but one look and he knew he had lost the only person he had devoted himself to. The ravens in the greens of his eyes had been absent, and he knew it was more than his disorder. That look was less of almost disgust, more of family breaking apart.

He didn’t call what he felt right then a heartbreak. That word was too literal for him, and he didn’t exactly consider what Ian and he had love. Melancholy was closest. Watching him rip his pink ears away from the telephone and walk away from the thin, faded glass without a second look was a pain almost synonymous to losing a limb, almost synonymous to bones cracking and the first thing he instantly felt was panic. He had panicked but he’d kept it at bay. He didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t have been able to leave that post if it weren’t for the bile rising in his throat and the heavy feeling of a tumor that is the misspelled tattoo in his chest.

Mickey wished he could deny to himself that he didn’t spend his entire stint inside the prison just thinking about Ian. Prison had been a bitch to him. He’d been assigned unfortunately in a cell with someone who has been convicted for murder, Damon. Although he claimed to have done the act under the influence of some substance, Mickey still didn’t take the chance of sleeping heavily with a murderer on an old futon just a few feet away from him. It left him in a state of constant twitchiness. He’d taught himself how to sleep lightly.

And it hadn’t been a tough job, for the most part. As much as he tried to clear his mind of anything that might involve an Ian, a Gallagher and a redhead, that motherfucker had always managed to sneak himself inside Mickey’s head and cloud his thoughts at night. He had been sad about their breakup, of course, but underlying this apparent devastation is a prism of hope that he just couldn’t and hadn’t been able to extinguish. Mickey knew he was being such a fucking fool, but he fell in love with a Gallagher, he thought, and nothing really couldn’t get any fooler than that. Or fairy-er.

Mickey had also thought of the beach. He’d missed the feeling of sunlight against his pale skin, so he thought of the beach a lot. He’d thought of Ian and him sitting in the sand with the tips of their feet in contact with the almost arctic beachwater. Yes, Mickey knew he was being such a fucking fairy, but these thoughts had helped him in coping with his misery. He’d pictured this image of a geriatric woman eyeing their intertwined hands as if it’s the most sinful thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. He’d tried to imagine the sound of waves crashing onto one another and sketch out the shadows and outlines of pine trees swaying in sync with the air. He’d thought of Ian smiling, Ian frowning, Ian jutting out his “chin”, Ian flashing his famous puppy dog eyes. He was almost thankful Ian hadn’t left his thoughts because Mickey’d been constantly scared his mind would forget what he looks like.

One night, He had asked for a paper and pen and he drew everything he remembered about Ian's face so he'd never ever forget it.

Damon had been the only one Mickey actually made interaction with, if one wouldn’t count all the wordless fucks he’d had with needy, lustful bottoms inside the prison. Surprisingly, Mickey and him had found familiarity in each other’s sob stories, though they mostly just shared and exchanged it through grunts and three to five-worded phrases. Apparently, the guy who Damon murdered had her thirteen-year-old daughter gagged, raped and kept in captivity, so the act had passed off as reasonable for Mickey. That fucking animal deserved it.

A sharp yet comfortable repartee had developed between Mickey and Damon, and the hallmark of their acquaintance, Mickey couldn’t even call it a friendship, was their mutual desire to escape that shithole.

So they both did.

Mickey asks himself now if his escaping was worth it.

“Fuck.”

Yes. He’s completely fucked. 

\--

Mickey ends up driving and driving without a destination in mind. The first thing he’d intended to do with Ian after crossing that fucking border was to indulge themselves in some Mexican eat-all-you-can and celebrate their “freedom”. They’d leave the place guffawing and with their tummies filled. They’d find a two-star motel nearby and fuck until morning like frenzied rabbits. Mickey had it all pictured and planned out in his head.

Now that he has crossed the border but sans Ian, it’s as if his mind has completely shut itself down.

He doesn’t know what to do. All he had in his mind was this Plan A, and he was such a fucking fool to allow himself to think that there might not be a need for fucking Plan Bs and Plan Cs. He didn’t actually think that its possible for Ian to be completely and permanently out of his life. His being giddy about this escapade and his Let’s ride didn’t help also. Ian and Mickey, he thought there would always be Ian and Mickey. 

Mickey lets out a small sigh- then a laugh. This is the end. The end of Ian and Mickey. The end of the bond between a redhead and his raven-haired boy. Ian is completely, permanently out of his life. 

There is no coming back.

This realization hits Mickey like punches in the gut, like someone Glock-whipped his pale cheeks. There is no Ian Gallagher anymore to go back to this time. Mickey had already extinguished the little of what was left of the hope he had had inside the prison. 

Hope ain’t ever did jack shit for him anyway.

Of course, there is an aching at first; he recognizes it easily. Its almost tangible; Mickey could perceive the twist of pain in his gut, and all the while he bites the sides of his mouth to keep himself from wailing and heaving. As he further drives himself away from the border and the distance between him and the color of red on the other side of it stretches, it was as if someone’s trying to asphyxiate him with a metal pole. He couldn’t breathe. He’s unable to breathe, and he feels an influx of vomit trying to clog his throat and escape out of his mouth. 

Mickey thinks of something else to keep it at bay.

He thinks of the beaches in Mexico and being blanketed by lots of fucking sunlight and how Damon, who his dumbass had left somewhere, could’ve helped him as a human map. He thinks of Chicago. He thinks about Mandy and Svetlana and how they are the strongest fucking women Mickey had ever known in his life. And Yevgeny. He thinks how he has always secretly liked the kid, even though Mickey for the life of him couldn’t get himself to fucking pronounce the kid’s name right. Although at first, Mickey looked at him and saw remainders of all the transgression his dad had inflicted on him, the little shit snuck himself and crawled under Mickey’s skin. He thinks about an alternate universe where his state of life allowed him to be there for his kid, so that he could prove to himself that he’s not a facsimile of his dad. He thinks and hold onto Yevgeny’s laugh and the way his eyes thin into lines as Mickey makes him laugh for constantly getting the diaper straps attached all wrong. He thinks about how he secretly loved it every time he held Yevgeny in his arms, and how his kid burrows himself into Mickey’s chest as if it was something he’d been born to do. 

He thinks until not even the mere idea of redheads exists in Mickey’s mind anymore.

Just like with any of his past violet bruises, Mickey would let this one heal by itself. 

\--

Mickey never thought about how fucking hard it would be to get to Mexico City, or to a fucking place where civilization exists and thrives. For the most part of his sojourn, what he saw outside could almost pass as hectares and more hectares of fucking desert. He hadn’t seen a single establishment except for an unmanned gasoline station. The place looks deserted, and he thought it’d be safe to rip off his wig and earrings. The fuckers’ itchy and irritating as hell. Mickey stops at the station to take a leak.

The first thing that his mind registers about the place is that it reeks of fucking turd. “’re the fuck am I?”, he whispers disbelievingly to himself, to the nothingness that surrounds him.

Mickey scans the place for a toilet. He goes to the back of an abandoned gasoline mart and all he sees are rat-infested bins and scattered leftover food. Mickey shifts grumpily as his bladder practically shouts at him for relief. Of course, this fucking shithole hasn’t got a toilet. It was if the place is made for a dejected piece of trash like him; almost as if it’s trying to match his sour mood. He then decides against what was left of his moralities and he lifts his skirt, pushes down his underwear and he pees at the large of the backdoor of the mart, spraying at it like a fucking animal.

He moves to where the gasoline hoses are perfectly perched, praying to someone up there to at least give him some free gas.

Mickey pulls the lever and curses as nothing but droplets of liquid poured out of the hose.

Frustration got to his nerves, “Fuck!”

Mickey’s legs are shaking. His kneecaps are failing him. He hadn’t been this helpless before. The only positive trait about him, he thought, was that he could always find a way out of things. He’s never one to compromise; he always improvises. Mickey knows how to twist what was thrown at him into something that would be convenient for him. He’s always been upfront about how he’s fucked for life, how a southside piece of trash like him couldn’t establish a life outside Canaryville, but that didn’t stop him from always going forward. Not even the monster that is Terry stopped him. He’d always improvised just to move on and move forward.

Mickey was wise. The only trajectory he had his eyes focused on was forward.

Now, he doesn’t know where that wise Mickey guy had fucked off. He feels so lost. Sitting in a post next to these useless hoses he feels a phantom loss of limbs, and Mickey thinks he’s back in square one. He has lost his trajectory. His mind has gone haywire, and he feels like his feet are replaced with bags of cement. It then hits him.

He has nowhere to go. 

He’s free, but he had nowhere to go.

Mickey peers at his now trembling hands, the letters of FUCK and U-UP both shaking, and his sudden realization makes him crave for smokes. Mickey thinks it wouldn’t hurt to have a little smoke break, and it isn’t as if he has something urgent to do or fuck, even somewhere to be, for fuck’s sake. 

Mickey stands and goes back to his car to search for his smokes, but his eyes unconsciously catch the white, fat envelope perched on the floor of the car. He instantly freezes, cold ice running down his spine, and in a snap, Gallagher yet again squiggles his way back into his mind. At that moment, Mickey wills his mind to focus on other things; to the stentorian and horribly-sang country song playing in the radio, the way the rays of the sun perforating the car’s windshield dance on his skin, the fucking whereabouts of his cigarettes; anything. Anything to distract his hands for reaching out to the envelope and search it for some dregs of Gallagher’s warmth. Anything to distract his mind and deadwood of a heart from thinking and hoping that maybe Gallagher has written a note inside, telling him it was all a good old prank, and that he’s still up for it. 

And he has. Mickey’s eyes catch the little note inked in the shaft of the envelope. He holds the envelope closer with shaky hands until the scribbled words are readable.

_“I’m always going to think of you, too. Always.”_

Its as if the envelope materializes into pieces of scorching hot metal in Mickey’s hands. He hears a sound of something hitting the ground but he isn’t sure. His mind is fogged. A guffaw rumbles and escapes its way out of Mickey’s mouth – one that is humorless, one that is hollow. Mickey couldn’t believe it. Mickey couldn’t believe him.

Mickey admits he could do some help with the money, but it isn’t his purpose and reason why he asked Ian to go with him. If Mickey actually stumps out and runs out of money, he would’ve gotten a way to acquire dough, be it legally or illegally. He would; he always does. He didn’t risk all that danger that comes with going back to Southside and reaching out to Ian just to fucking scam money out of his official-looking ass. He wanted Ian, and Mickey was sure he made it perfectly clear when he asked him if he’d like to go to Mexico with him. 

The thing is, Ian had all the right to refuse. He had all the right to decline Mickey’s offer. Agreeing to go with him means that his state of life will be entirely flipped, and they’d be on the run together, so Mickey fully understands if he refuses. 

Mickey had it all planned out though, if Ian actually agrees to go with him. Of course, they’d stay hopping from one motel to another in the first few weeks of their stay, and then they’d look for apartment listings. They’d look for a place where there are enough bars to drink their selves off daily. Mickey could steal Ian’s meds off a pharmacy. They could establish a new life out of their own twisted sense of freedom, and Mickey could see loving every second of it.

A red, biting anger then stirs up within Mickey – and then, a wave of exhaustion. All Ian was up for was the thrill. He thinks he could get away with taking one last taste of the thrill before going back to his boring, 9 to 5 boyfriend. Ian giving Mickey the wad of money was him trying to wash off specks of guilt for taking a taste and leaving after he’s satiated. It was never because he loved Mickey, or shit like that. It was so that he could fucking sleep at night knowing that Mickey owes him something. 

Mickey looks up and he stares at himself through the small, rectangular mirror. There are bags under his eyes and somehow, he looks older, more mature. He peers at himself and he sees a different person; a Mickey different from that sixteen-year-old boy who thought he’s fucked for life, a Mickey different from that twenty-one-year-old man who had a ginger constantly creeping under his skin.  
Maybe if he thinks of the entire time they’d spend together the way Ian thought about it, it’d hurt less, and then the pain'd be quick to move on from.

Maybe if he also considers it as a last taste of thrill for Mickey and Ian, maybe, he could take a step forward again.

Mickey picks up the envelope – with ease this time, and throws it on the backseat. He chooses not to believe a single word out of that note. If anything, it makes him redefine his freedom – he’s not only out of jail and out of Southside, but he’s also out of Ian’s grasp this time.

And he’s fucking ready to take a step forward.

Well, after a much-needed smoke break, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes. We're still kinda trapped in Mickey's headspace.

Mickey drives away from the gasoline station with a replenished gusto to find a place to stay. He has gone past through two towns already, but he hasn't tried to stop and take temporary residence in either one of them. The first town was too vivacious, too festive, what with being the first town to actually welcome people coming from the other side of the border. The next town was the complete opposite. It was dull and the town looked almost black and white to him, stinging silence draping the entire streets and sidewalks. There was not even a single fucking pub in sight, and that, that was just offensive in itself to Mickey. So he drove past through these towns. That, and this gut feeling he had to just keep on driving away from something. Maybe its what on the other side of the border or something else, but Mickey drove and drove until he felt a slab of exhaustion and burnout creep into him. He checks the time, 9:30 pm. He was driving for only four hours and he's already exhausted. Mickey huffs out of frustration. Back when he was young, hes been the one who always accompanies and drives his dad to his "transactions", and usually, his dad makes him drive for hours and hours, hell, half a day, even. Those were the only few times Terry actually appreciated Mickey's presence, so he was always too ecstatic. He sort of played his father's fear monger. He has broken too many kneecaps of people who owed his father money or drugs to last a lifetime. 

When his father had asked him to be in his first ever run-in, he jumped ecstatically out of joy. He was eight years old back then, and he was joined by his two brothers, Iggy and Colin. He had been excited; he had thought they'd be doing something exciting like skating or watching a baseball match. He watched with a pained expression plastered on his face his dad and his brothers harassing an Italian oldster who owed his dad ten grand for a few grams of E. After getting the dough, his dad had walked his way with an unwavering gait and patted him a little too forceful in the back. Terry bent down to Mickey's height and muttered, "get yourself used to this kind of scenery, there'd be many of those you'll get to see, kid. We Milkoviches always resort to violence.". What Mickey could only do to mask his growing fear back then was to gulp and nod faintly.

He'd never thought he'd one day use his childhood baseball bat to break kneecaps and smash at temples. 

But Mickey's not about that kind of life again; actually, he thought, if it weren't for his father and his ruthless threats, he wouldn't embrace that lifestyle at all. He plans on getting out of the Feds' way. Mickey has to start with finding a place and a decent-paying job without resorting to violence, or at least if it doesn't require it. 

Mickey drives and drives until he feels a duvet of exhaustion trying to reel him in. He'd drove past through multiple towns already, but he couldn't just will himself to stop yet. Drowsiness finally creeps up on him as he's driving at some provincial highway. He looks at the digital clock; its ten past 2 in the morning. Mickey thinks its just right to stop at some motel and take a much-deserved sleep before looking for a town and some semblance of home again the next day.

He drives through a deserted highway, praying that he'd find a cheap apartelle somewhere. Or at least, even some vacant gasoline station where he could pull up and sleep at the backseat of his car. Truth is, Mickey feels guilty spending Ian's own money at some random motel. While the fucking bastard gave it to him willingly, Ian still worked hard for that dough. Mickey isn't sure how much the envelope actually had, but judging by its thickness he could just assume its pretty fucking enough to buy him a van, at least. For one quick moment, he almost finds himself bursting with a sense of proudness for the redhead for even having a fucking bank account in the first place.

Mickey wishes he could send it back to him. He wants Ian to have the money he worked hard for. Mickey knew firsthand how hard it is to earn legal shares of money in Southside, thats why he always went for the illegal way. It may got his ass hauled in and out of juvie, but it was the only way he knew how to make money; dealing and scamming. He had and he has zero chance in actually acquiring a highschool diploma or even a GED, so the opportunities are pretty narrow. Narrow wouldn't even begin to cover it; it was more like that of the needle hole. The only jobs his application could've actually been legible for were either a security spot in that fuckhole Kash and Grab or a sweeper in some high school. Both sounded like he'd rather put a fucking bullet through his temple himself. He did some time in Kash and Grab before though, but it was more of him drawing up some excuse to himself to hide the fact that he actually wanted and craved Ian's presence all the time.

Sending him back the money may also mean Mickey was finally severing his ties to Ian. He snickers at the thought. Severing ties sounds like they had been in a some sort of twisted marriage-relationship before where both of them would rather just die than bask in each other's absences, and thats just unmistakably and laughably wrong. Mickey had always been tied to Ian; he was the only one who kept Mickey up and going inside the prison. Ian had never been tied to Mickey, or so Mickey thought at least. The emotional investment had always been off-kilter between the two and Mickey had been fool enough for so long to keep it pushed and cramped under the rug. Ian had fucking boyfriends, for God's sake.

He wasn't actually blaming Ian for this, he's mostly blaming himself. Ian had the right to move on and he chose to move on. Mickey had too, he wishes to but fuck, he just... couldn't.

Mickey shuts this torrent of thoughts before it steers him again the self-destructive way. He couldn't miss Ian and he couldn't bask in the thought of him and he couldn't look at this single goddamned streetlight on his far right and think its Ian laving the large of the highway, Mickey, with a stream of weak, flicking light - not when he's supposed to find a fucking place to stay the night, goddamnit. 

Mickey would find a way to make money and once he's stably earning, he'd send it back to Gallagher.

He drives further until he reaches a small town. Its too quiet, Mickey could almost hear his circulation. There are tons of houses with their lights turned off lined neatly on his left, and then a donut shop and a small pub on the far end, with closed signs dangling on both of its doors. He drives further but there are no motels, so Mickey decides to pull up in one of the gasoline stations.

Immediately after pulling the breaks he hears his stomach rumbling. It hits him then that he hadn't eaten fucking anything since he'd passed through that border. Those staccato paroxysms of grief and anger he had felt right after passing the border had been overwhelming enough to cover up the hunger and other feelings he's physiologically supposed to perceive. Mickey finds his first stroke of luck in like fucking eternity when he peers to the small one stop shop and he sees that the lights were on. He grabs a bunch of Benjamins from the envelope and he goes and strides inside the store.

He goes for the instants section and he isn't surprised when he finds only a bunch of three minute noodles in plastic cups and a canned beans. He stashes one of the noodles, and grabs a Gatorade and a Fanta from the refreshments section. He brings all these to the counter, a curly-haired brunette sitting behind the post who looked old enough to probably have borne the toddler from where the muffled cries were from. She gives Mickey a glance - a mixture of confusion and delight - and then her eyes go to the stuff Mickey had in his arms.

She punches it all in without so much a word or even a glance again to Mickey, and Mickey gladly appreciates it. Mickey pulls out a tenner to pay for the bill and as he's about to gather all his purchases he hears the brunette speak up, "Pesos. We no accept dollar."

Fuck. Of course. A situation couldn't possibly take place if Mickey and fucking bad luck aren't going to be in the same sentence together. Pent-up frustration continues to well up inside him. "Well, I don't have fucking pesos with me right now, and I'm sure there aren't any bank open right now to fucking convert Gallagher's dollars.", he tries. Mickey is surprised by how raspy his voice sounded, and he was washed by some weird relief that he hadn't lost his voice. This was the first time he had listen to his actual voice and not the sinister voice of his mind. This however is answered by another look of confusion from the brunette.

"50 dollars. 50 dollars for all."

"50 dollars-" Mickey repeats in disbelief. "Ten fucking dollars would be more than fucking enough for all these shit and you're asking me for-"

"50 dollars yes. You either take it or you no take it, angry small man. 50 dollars, you take all these shit." She picks up the bag that held Mickey's purchase and threw it at cabinet behind the counter where it was out of Mickey's reach. "And don't try to fight me small man. My shotgun could make your small angry face unrecognizable." She says, and what with the pure defiance painted all over her face and stance, somehow Mickey doesn't doubt it.

With defeat and exhaustion dripping in his voice he reluctantly hands her out a fifty. She beams with a megawatt smile that exposes her tartar-ed set of teeth while handing Mickey the bag of groceries. He opens the noodles and fills it up with hot water from a dispenser not far from the counter. Mickey almost feels like a dress-clad zombie as he make his way back into his car. 

Hopping back in his car, Mickey keeps the engine turned off as to not waste any gas to air conditioning. He reclines his chair and rolls down the window to allow both the moonlight and almost arctic air to permeate his senses. He gets his tongue burnt as he takes a taste of his almost boiling noodles, but he doesn't mind the pain. It feels weirdly nice to have and feel some sort of sensation, he thinks.

He didn't want to wallow in self-pity by dredging up past unfortunate experiences, but with no one to talk to but the heinous voice of his thoughts, he couldn't help not to. This was what his life had came down to; alone and in the brink of madness in the middle of God knows fucking where. Yes, he'd always been a lonewolf, but he was still around people. He'd been used to the sounds of his brothers bickering outside of his room no matter how annoying it always gets. He'd been used to the Russian whores' shitshow and to Mandy's quite obnoxious pronouncements of her boy problems. He'd been fucking annoyed at all of it before, but fuck, he realizes he misses it all now.

Now he's around no one. Mandy has fucked off to God knows where, and while he's really proud of her for making it out of Southside, he wishes they'd still be able to come back and reunite again. She'd been the most understanding among his siblings, a trait she'd gotten from their late Ma. If they see each other again, the first thing he'd probably get from her was a warm, homely hug, then the punches, slaps and lectures of how dumb Mickey had been would only come next.

Iggy and his other rabbit-brained brothers are probably either still stuck in their household or incarcerated. Or had kicked off the bucket, probably, Mickey doesn't know. Mickey suddenly finds himself missing his siblings so much. A fireball of yearning to meet them again well up in his gut, and misery hits him right then, immediately extinguishing his hunger. He places down the cup in his hands and goes to the backseat so that he could maybe sleep off his heavy, joyless heart. He truly needs a beer or something stronger.

He rummages through his knapsack to search for a tank and rolls up the window. He changes his clothes before laying down the backseat, his backpack used as a pillow. His last thoughts before going to sleep consist regretting not going to his siblings first instead of Ian after escaping prison.

\--

Mickey had been six and a half years old then when his mom didn't answer him for the first time from the other cup. 

Once when he had been five years old, his fuckhead of a brother Joey went home grinning like an idiot with a DVD gripped in his hands. Mickey was munching on a poptart from the dining table when he suspiciously eyed his brother basically dancing his way to the couch, excited. He gave him a confused look, and once he decided he was being ignored he hopped off from his high chair, went to the couch and asked him what it was and if he could watch it with him. There had been a flash of hesitation in his eyes, but then it was quickly washed away. Joey tapped on the space next to him, inviting Mickey to sit. He told him they'd watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which earned an almost blinding, megawatt smile from his little brother.

Mickey was almost shaking from excitement; Terry was away with Iggy to one of his runs, and it was his first time to watch a cartoon. He had never got the chance to watch cartoons and basically anything that is suitable for kids since whenever Terry is present and inebriated beyond rational thinking and behavior, which was like, all the fucking time, he'd perch himself on the couch like one huge slab of dead meat on a butcher's table, and he'd leave the television open and fixed to a rerun of some 90's football match. No one dared to change the channel, not even when Terry snored so loud it resonated throughout the four corners of the house. Mickey usually just holes up in his bedroom, praying for his dad to ignore his and Mandy's presence. So Joey renting a DVD and letting his brother watch some cartoons had been such a big deal to him. He'd seen the boys from his class gush endlessly over superheroes and ninja turtles and Mickey had been nothing but envious about it. 

When the movie was about to start, Mickey tapped his brother and commanded him to pause it for a while. He dashed and crossed the distance to the dining table to swipe the little of what was left of his poptart and went back to the couch in record time. Out of sheer paranoia, Mickey eyed the front door for traces of his dad's presence before bouncing on his place in the couch like a rabbit doped up on E.

"Okay, okay, little man, relax, you'll get to see your movie soon," Joey huffed out a laugh at his brother's giddiness and ruffled Mickey's raven hair. Mickey looked up at him, and saw what his mind told him was traces of guilt in his brother's blue eyes.

"This is the one with the cute turtles, right? Turtles with shield backpacks on their backs?" 

When Joey confirmed with a faint nod that it was indeed the turtles movie, Mickey beamed a toothless grin again and he pressed the play button. 

Mickey hadn't been able to contain himself. He gripped onto Joey's sleeve. "One of the boys in my class has a lunch box with the yellow turtle in it. He told me the name of the turtle was Michelangelo, and then he asked me who the cartoon character in my lunchbox was." Mickey huffed for a bit, looked away, then continued. "I just went away then so they wouldn't see how my peanut butter and jelly was wrapped." 

Mickey relayed this anecdote to Joey with a wavering smile, while Joey looked noncommittally at his younger brother, almost as if he was avoiding to look Mickey directly in his eyes. Joey knew damn well how their Ma wrapped their lunch for them; he'd had a share of it when he was younger. Their lunches are wrapped neatly in a used newspaper folded in an accordion style. Mickey used to be so enamored of how graceful his Ma looked, folding those newspapers and wrapping their PB and Js that one of his brothers had to clench Mickey's dropped open mouth shut just to keep his drool from hitting the floor.

If Mickey wasn't so blinded by his excitement he swore he could see the guilt in his brother's eyes darken. Joey was indeed guilty of what he was about to pull on Mickey, but he'd still been a teenager, so he had let his immaturity take control. 

The starting credits rolled and the first thing Mickey noticed is how dim and dark the aesthetic of the film is. His classmates had once mimicked the turtles' voice to him, and none of the characters in the film had the high-pitched squeak in their voices. Still, it didn't faze Mickey even the least bit. 

Mickey should've start doubting his brother the moment the film started and there weren't any turtles in tacky outfits and green, hard shells clinging in their backs in sight. Instead, a group of horny teenagers who seemed as if they couldn't keep their hands off each other were on the screen. His classmates hadn't notified him about how badly acted this film is gonna be. About fifteen minutes in, the turtles Mickey had been excited about still hadn't graced the movie with their presence. There was an elephant in the room; only the muffled sound of Joey's laughter at the sight of Mickey's ever so expressive eyebrows hunched in genuine confusion can be heard.

Then the violence started.

Motherfucker made him, an innocent and pure five year old, watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

When he saw someone's flesh get torn off in two so vividly, he almost heaved right there at the couch out of sheer disgust and horror. Intense fear coursed through Mickey's spine as he watched the graphic visual playing in the TV.  Then the killer came into view, and it sent Mickey running into his room, on the verge of tears and screaming like a maniac. From his room he could hear his motherfucker of a brother cackling like he hasn't seen something funnier in his life before.

Mickey was slouched on one side of the room, his knees folded back as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible. He has his head tucked in his arms and he was full on crying. He couldn't get the image of the killer and the buzz of the chainsaw that rang a little too loud out of his mind. Mickey knew, even at a young age, that he shouldn't cry, not inside their household. If Terry catches a sight of him right now, snotty and eyes all red-rimmed,  he would get a nice silver platter of a good beating. 

But still, he couldn't stop crying. This was the first time he allowed himself to be at least a little excited about things normal five year olds should be excited about, and yet even the fucking turtles had been robbed from him. Thinking about it in the present, yes it would've been funny, but back then Mickey had been heartbroken. In their household, no one ever experiences that childhood shit; Terry is that catalyzer that forces all of his Milkovich goons to skip their youth and go straight to real, hard stuff. In his house, family is a word foreign to their tongue and ears; all they are is a fucking corporation. Its never been Terry and his family; its always been Terry and his obsequious minions. So not being able to watch fucking ninja turtles on action after being all ecstatic and excited about it had been as heartbreaking to a five year old Mickey Milkovich as Ian Gallagher backing out a few centimeters away from the border to a 23 year old Mickey Milkovich. Sue him.

He heard their front door shut and for a moment, Mickey's chest thundered at the thought of Terry barging in, jonesing quite expressively for a third drink, and of him seeing Mickey in a quite deranged state. However, the nonplussed voice of his mother asking Joey "Hey, shut that disgusting shit off. Where's your little brother?" was a balm to his soul, and suddenly he found himself running out the door and into his mother's arms. He hugged her so tight, burrowing his head in her mother's torso as he sobbed hard. 

His mother, Laura, patted him on the top of his head and that simple gesture somehow made him feel a small sense of safety. "Hey punch, what happened?"

"Oh, c'mon Mick, it was a fucking joke!"

Mickey tightened his hug on his mother as Laura reached her arm out and smacked Joey hard on the back of his head. "What the fuck did you do?"

Joey scowled and scratched at the back of his head. He shrugged at the accusing look his mom was currently giving him, "I told Mickey we were gonna watch fucking Ninja Turtles, but I made him watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre instead."

Joey's unfazed look earned him another smack in the head from his mom. He yelped. "C'mon, stop overreacting! It was just a joke!"

Laura ignored her older son and led Mickey back to the comforts of his room. She guided her crying son, who was still sobbing in her shirt, and prompted him to sit on his bed. Laura kneeled at the floor right in front of Mickey to have a clearer look of Mickey's face. With her hands, she cleared all the snot and tears off of Mickey's face. "Hey bud, you're okay now. Mama's here."

He sniffed and stared directly at his mom's caring eyes. "Ma, I'm so scared. I can't get it out of my head, Ma."

"Can't get what out of your head?"

"The masked evil, Ma. The killer from the movie." Mickey's voice shook with small tremors that kept escaping out of his body and into his voice. "The sounds of the-the chainsaw, also. Every time I close my eyes, I can ima-imagine him hiding under my bed, waiting for me to sleep so he could get his chainsaw out and cut me in two. Mama, I'm so scared."

"Mickey, bud, you have to understand that movies aren't real." Laura smiled softly, as Mickey's face bunched up in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything about that movie is fictional. Isn't real. No one's gonna come crawling out of your bed because that killer isn't real." Laura ignored the fact that Texas Chainsaw Massacre was actually based on true records; the only thing that had been important at the time was to calm Mickey down. She lowered her torso as if she was actually checking for masked killers under Mickey's bed. Mickey slowly and hesitantly followed his mother's gaze. Laura looked back at her relaxing son and smiled. "See? There're no monsters or any killers there."

Mickey walked away and tipped his chin up. "What if the killer's just waiting for you to leave me alone before he jumps out of nowhere to kill me?" Mickey chilled at the thought.

Laura looked at her son and gave him a warm smile. She got an idea to calm Mickey down. "Okay wait here for a minute, I have an idea. I'm gonna get something." Mickey nodded, and Laura stormed out of his room.

When she came back to Mickey, she has a long string of yarn and two plastic cups on her hands. Mickey looked more and more confused as he watched his mom punch a hole at the bottom of each cup so she could tie the ends of the yarn in it. She went for the windows and ordered Mickey to hold one cup. Mickey was wide-eyed when Laura dove into the window until her entire torso was out, and she threw the other cup into the next room's window, hers and Terry's. 

She slid her body back into Mickey's room and went to a baffled Mickey, who was still eyeing the cup with genuine curiosity. Laura held her hands out and she took the cup. "This is like a telephone where only you and I, from the other room, can use. You could talk to me by shouting into the cup and putting your ear next to it. Whenever you feel scared, you just shout to the cup, 'Captain Laura!' and I'll always be there on the other side to shout 'Aye, aye, Captain Mickey!' back, so that you'd know I'm just right on the other side of this wall every time you're feeling alone." She warmly smiles at her son. "Always remember that you don't have to be scared of anything, because I'm always just on the other side of this wall, a few steps away from you. Always."

Mickey's eyes shone with excitement at the idea. They tried the telephone later that night, and Mickey giggled at the comical voice his Mom had used. Mickey slept with no thoughts of any masked killer that night, not knowing that his mom had to tuck the cup inside her dresser so she could put it out of Terry's line of vision.

They had used the telephone almost every night. Sometimes they just used it to play and horse around, talking to each other as if they were two captains manning a sinking ship, and mostly, it had been a balm to Mickey's troubled childhood. It gave him a sense of normalcy.

Until that one day.

He had been six and a half years old then when his mom didn't answer him for the first time from the other cup.

He had been excited to talk to his Ma about standing up for himself when one of his classmates called him short and smelly. He had punched the kid in his face and broke the kid's nose. He had been so proud of himself despite the weird looks his other classmates had given him. "Captain Laura! Captain Laura! Captain Mickey is speaking!"

He put his ear into the cup, but there had been nothing but stinging silence coming from the other line. Mickey thought his Ma just hadn't heard him shout, so he tried to call out for her again and shouted louder this time.

But no one were still replying on the other side.

Mickey sat with the cup pasted on his ear for a few minutes, which honestly had felt like hours as he waited for his Ma to reply back. She'd promised, Mickey thought sadly, she had promised she'll always be there for Mickey. He knew Laura was just on the other side; he knew what time his Ma goes home from work, and it was still too early in the evening for her to be asleep, so he knew she had no reasons not to pick Mickey's call up. His eyes welled up with tears as panic rose like bile on his throat. He tried again, one last time.

"Ma?" His loud voice was dripping with a hybrid of fear, sadness and desperation.

He slowly, fearfully pushed the cup back into his ear. 

Still: silence.

Tears tore through Mickey's façade and he ran quickly to the other room to check what happened to his Ma. 

Any amount of Texas Chainsaw Massacre marathon couldn't have possibly readied him for what was he about to see as he opened the door to his mom's room.

There was his mom unconscious on the floor, with all of her limbs all splayed out. A pool of vomitus and saliva was bubbling out of her mouth. At her side was a mess of pills and empty, fluorescent bottles. Mickey hadn't been able to breathe.

Mickey wakes up, and he wakes up to a wet backseat. Mickey had wet himself.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Anger is what Mickey registers the second he snaps out of his haze. He feels an overwhelming surge of anger thats mostly directed at himself as he wipes his backseat with paper tissue. He couldn't believe that he actually wetted himself like a fucking toddler. And he also couldn't believe he had dreamt of that memory.

Mickey hadn't dreamt or thought of his Ma for a long while now, and its mostly because all his memories of her had hurt, so he's used to boxing them all up. Every single one of them is associated with a stinging sense of pain, so Mickey had always tried his hardest to steer his mind away from all of it. He couldn't see a reason why his mind chose this exact time to bring those memories back other than the universe trying to fucking mess up with him one more time and bring him spiraling further down in this seemingly endless pit of misery he found himself trapped in.

The sun blasts through the car windows, and huge beads of sweat ran down and covered Mickey's entire body. He suddenly feels suffocated as his pee-coated backseat started to smell, and it makes Mickey hates himself more. He quickly changes into a clean set of underwear and jeans and steps out of the car. He basks himself under the strong Mexican sun.

 _Its a brand new day_ , Mickey thinks, its a brand new day and he could choose to fucking waste another minute of it by feeling sorry for himself, but he isn't gonna. He has to push back any memories that felt like chain chokers, locking him in place and always snapping him back to square one every time he tries to take a step forward and move on. Milkoviches aren't supposed to be wired that way; they're supposed to be cockroaches, who even in the most unfortunate circumstances, always figure out means for survival. He hadn't an idea when that changed for him, but he bet its a certain redhead's fault. Bitch crawled under Mickey's skin, loosened each nuts and bolts and wired him differently. Mickey had known having feelings had meant shutting your guard down, and shutting your guard down was basically a death wish, but fuck, he was so lost in Ian, in his green eyes, in all of Ian, that he had ignored yet again another slip-up.

As soon as the pungency was cleared out and was toned down into a tolerable whiff, he perches himself back into his car and drives away to search for a new city. He drives for almost three hours until he reaches a small city. He stops to rest his back and for a much needed drink.

He walks through one of the pub, the Kingdom. As soon as he walks inside he was overwhelmed with the drunken guffaws and loud Mexican (probably) chatters booming through the corners of the room. He then feels an odd sense of warmth in the pit of his gut as he takes in his surroundings. If he imagines hard enough, it was as if he's back in Canaryville, slumming it with the old and drunken fuckwits of the Alibi, gulping shot after shot of alcohol being passed at him. He could almost hear Kevin's annoying as fuck voice as he tries to stop whatever commotion was happening inside his bar, and he could almost hear Vee's pills clanking inside its bottles as she neatly lines them up the table for sale.

Fuck it. He'd never say it, not in this lifetime, but he actually misses them.

Mickey swaggers through the group of hipsters with fucking bandanas and feathers strapped around their temples and goes straight through the bar. A girl his age was standing behind it, and she smiles at him, a little too sunnily, as she notices him. She walks straight to Mickey, a smile plastered on her face. Her gait could be described as if she's trying to dance and walk at the same time. She perches her torso at the bar, her pair of pear-shaped breasts crying for escape from the restraint of her thin spaghetti top, and eyes Mickey not so subtly. She utters lowly something in a language foreign to Mickey as she continues to rake her eyes all over him. Mickey shuffles uncomfortably as he feels those globes shift up north and down south. Even if there was a palpable and concrete language barrier between the two, its pretty evident the girl was checking him out.

Mickey could only grunt a confused "Uh...?".

A smile creeps up the woman's face and it lights up her aura. A little bit of the discomfort are then relieved off Mickey's body, thanks to how her smile makes her aura go from predatory and sensual to an amicable and warm one. "No Spanish, I see?"

Her voice was laced with a thick Mexican accent and it reminds him of Svetlana. "Yeah. Are you supposed to be the bartender here? I want beer. You understand that? Beer." Mickey makes a drinking motion with his arms and hands. "Drink? Beer?"

Somehow, the girl's smile widened. The resemblance between her and Svetlana almost threw him off, but he can't think of her now. If he even ventures that way, it'll just snowball into thinking about Yevgeny then into thinking about the streets of fucking Chicago and then straight back to square one: thinking about that damn Gallagher.

So yeah, no fucking thanks.

Mickey realises how bad he needs to fucking dilate his circulation with alcohol.

"Ah, sweet white man. C'mon now, don't be racist, I know English. I have the English language memorised like the back and front of my hand."

"Then fucking get me my drink then," Mickey huffs in annoyance as he pulls out some crumpled bills out of his pocket. He hasn't got the patience to look how much money he pulled out so he slides them all in the counter. "That should cover for the rest of night."

The girl tilts her head and looks at him quizzically. "Rest of the night? Its fucking 1pm."

Partly amused by the girl's ruggedness, Mickey looks at her, fixes his eyes to hers and finally returns her smile back. "I'm not leaving this fucking room until I'm drunk as fuck and limp as noodles. I want to be a puddle of bones and be one with the floor!"

The girl huffs out a big laugh. Once she's recovered, she turns her back to Mickey to get him a shot of beer from behind the counter. When she turns back again, the sultry look is back on her face and she extends her hand to Mickey. "Anna.", she said with a knowing smile, sliding the glass to Mickey's side.

"Didn't remember asking for your fucking name." He says, with no heat laced in his words. He's trying to drag this conversation out as long as possible, enjoying the presence of another body, another entity that doesn't see Mickey with a checklist of all the debaucheries and police records of his youth plastered on his forehead. Now, what this girl sees - what Anna sees - is a blank canvas, and Mickey is the painter who could manipulate what Anna could see in his pièce de résistance.

Anna just shrugged her shoulders. "Just being hospitable, I guess. I mean, you're supposed to be a tourist, right?

"Well, you could say that."

"And I, being the owner of this holy place, am supposed to keep myself in good graces with customers like yourself, is that right?"

Owner. Damn. "How the fuck are you so good in English?"

Anna smiles wider. "You know what, I actually salute you for your braveness. I salute you for being one of the few noisy as fuck white pawns, to ever walk this bar without a phony sombrero perched on top of his big head. Truly the rarest bijoux of 'em all. I commend you for your contribution to this country!"

The laugh that escapes Mickey was one for the books. It feels so good; he could feel all the discomfort and unease slide off him and he doesn't actually remember when was the last time he's laughed this hard. Damn, his life must really suck baboon ass. "Okay, lay off with the big ass words, Whitman," Mickey starts, gulping the drink in his hand in one go. "Mickey. And don't you dare make the Mickey Mouse joke."

The police are searching for a man named Mikhailo anyway, so he thinks it shouldn't have mattered that he gave his real nickname.

"Mickey." Anna said absentmindedly, as if she's trying to test and taste the disyllabic word in his mouth.

Mickey snaps her out of her momentary stupor as he slides the empty shotglass back into her hand for another shot. "Please do refill. I need to recalibrate my blood to alcohol proportion or else I'm gonna start screeching like fucking Aria in Queen of the Night."

Anna huffs out a laugh and turns her back to refill Mickey's glass. The bar starts to fill up with more customers as the night inches nearer, and Anna swooshes away from Mickey for a second to strugglingly tend to customer after customer. Suddenly, the sound of people schmoozing in thick Mexican accent didn't feel as very choking and asphyxiating to Mickey as much as it did the first time he strided inside the bar. This is his nature; loud and violent, the thick smell of the alcohol wafting through his nostrils, and it sends a sense of hope flaring up deep in his gut. Mickey could actually establish a new life here. He could get used to this. He could get used to Anna and the backpackers in bandanas and the lashes of hot Mexican sun on his pale skin. He could and he will. Its probably the drink in his system telling him all this but still. He acknowledges it; Fuck, given his current state, he needs every single encouragement he could get from anyone, and especially from his self, no matter how delusional it might sound.

That's why when Anna suddenly reappears in front of him, there was only one thing in his mind.

"Hey, do you have like some sort of a job opening here?"

That earns a genuine smile from Anna. "Damn, you're quite perfect, aren't you?"

To this, Mickey scoffs. He's the farthest thing from being perfect. In fact, no one should ever use the words Mickey and perfect in the same sentence together. Its just purely against the law of nature or some shit. Its like, you know trying to wed a hamster and a Chihuahua, a Jew and his Shiksa goddess. Shit, he's buzzed. "If you knew me back then, you'd fucking laugh at yourself just right now."

Anna ignores his statement as she claps her hands happily. "Right when Eduardo couldn't keep himself from sneezing rocks of snot and heaving his entire fucking stomach out, you came barging in, barging my way. Ah, my pale, guardian angel," She holds Mickey's face up by his chin. "A beautiful sunflower."

Mickey isn't sufficiently inebriated for this. Mickey tries to get away from the restraint of her grasp but he finds it hard and kinda nauseating to move his head elaborately so he just kinda gives up. Girl got iron hands. "Okay fuck all the way off. Who's Eduardo?"

Anna releases Mickey then. "S'pposed to be my aide here manning the bar, but like I said he's caught some kinda strain of flu or something. Chickened out for half a week now. I'm kinda understaffed at the moment, obviously. You wanna man the bar with me?"

"Yeah, but..." Mickey bites his lower lip and picks at the slope of his nose, just like what he does whenever he isn't quite sure of something. "What if this Eduardo guy recovers then? You gonna kick me then outta the curb?"

Anna smiles wickedly at the man in front of her. She isn't going to lie to herself, she finds him really, really cute, and if she tried to purposely push her boobs up her top so that it'd look bigger and maybe catch Mickey's attention, its none of your damn business. She could say it was to give her customers some kinda show, but the truth is, she has her eyes on one particular raven-haired customer. "You and me both, we're gonna kick him out of his job."

Mickey smiles to this. "And you'd trust me with the bar?"

"Stop talking funny. You're not signing a certificate for ownership. Its a job offer."

Mickey shrugs his shoulder. "I was just surprised, I guess. Its basically your baby right?"

"So you're telling me when you asked for this job, you originally have an ulterior motive?"

"I could have." Mickey says nonchalantly and he shrugs his shoulder, a smirk plastered on his face. From the comfortable smiles and smirks being exchanged, both of them are clearly enjoying the easy banter. "I mean, you don't even know me. I could be a fugitive, for one. Could have gone to prison for attempting to murder someone and escaped and fled to Mexico. I mean, I could be that."

"I guess I just have to take that risk." Anna slumps her arms in front of her and perches her head in his hands. "I like your presence, man. Plus, I could see a potential in you, you know..."

"Oh God, not that line."

Anna laughs. "You can start tomorrow. Be in here around one in the afternoon. Stuff yourself with burgers, the protein soaks up the sugar. Should help with your brewing headache tomorrow." She claps her hand again. Mickey decides she's a little too chipper to be manning a bar. "You don't gotta wear a uniform or anything. Just show up on time and we'll see what happens." She finishes with a bright smile.

He knew how big of a trust Anna is giving him, and for this, Mickey is bursting with gratitude. With this job, he could try and start to establish a routine. Routine is good; if he finds himself winding up like clockwork, maybe he could keep the seams weakly holding him up and firmly attached.

However, there's a sudden unease that bubbles up within Mickey as Anna starts to sashay away from him. He feels Anna deserves to at least know one important bit of information about Mickey.

Although he'd been out for years now, saying it out loud still felt like heaving an elephant out of him. And he didn't actually go parading and pronouncing he's taking it up the butt inside the prison, so he got used to just bottling it up to himself. He's wired to bottle it up. The one thing that makes it better though was the flood of relief after saying it. It feels like escaping a choke hold, and it makes it all worth it for Mickey. "Uh, Anna?"

Anna whips her head to look at him. "Yes?"

Mickey scratches the back of his head as he tries to find his voice and will it to just say the words. "Uh... I'm, I mean, uh, I'm gay?"

She twisted her body so she's entirely facing him, and she's quaking with stifled laughter. An influx of guffaw then roars out of her as she takes on the confused look on Mickey's scrunched up face. Although she had been checking out Mickey not so subtly a few minutes ago (c'mon, Mickey's a feast for the eyes, don't blame her), she knew all along he's not exactly batting for her way. So him having the need to tell her something she've known since the moment they've met, is just, funny in a way. What she doesn't know was that it took Mickey everything in him to spit out what she just laughed about. Mickey stepped back a little. "Anything funny?"

Anna raised both her hands, a serious look in her face. The shuffling lanes of light coming from different corners of the bar hit her, emphasizing the features of her face. "Hey, man, no ones judging here. I just thought it was pretty obvious from the start, what with you not giving my babies here any appreciation." She smiles at him slowly while fondling her breasts. She then drops her hands and places it resting against her hip. "I also don't give a shit. Come exactly in time and do your job well, and we wouldn't have a problem."

Mickey bows down his head and tries to hide the smile trying to come out of his mouth.

Going for that beer had been a serendipitous trip for Mickey. He counts these little things as strokes of luck, and not blessings, because he couldn't help but be a bit scared of all the repercussions it may entail if he called it blessings. For every scrap of blessing he'd had, he'd get a thick ass book of bad repercussions in return. He's kinda fucked up that way, so he's learned to just constantly look out for himself. Its always important to look out for yourself; damn, he'd learned that the hard way.

He'd slept on the backseat again that night. He'd eerily found himself growing accustomed to the discomfort of his car. Although he could do without the remains of the pungent smell of his damp seat, he's quite thankful for the dingy car. And honestly, he didn't have much of a choice. He knew the dough Ian had given him wasn't gonna last long given his current state of life, so he isn't gonna waste it.

Mickey wakes up to a series of knocking against the car's window. It takes him an effort to pry his eyes open and wake up since he wanted to hold onto the peace that comes with the sleep for another moment.

"Good morning, sunflower!"

The loud boom of Anna's muffled voice pierces through Mickey's ears and it awakes him like morning coffee. He gets up, groaning, and he rubs his eyes off to erase any traces of sleep before he faces the new day. As soon as he opens his eyes, he is met with Anna's face, her face dolled up completely with make up and lipstick, planted against the window, looming over him and staring at his appearance with a rather curious expression. "Hey sunflower. Did you sleep here?"

Mickey shoos her face away from the glass so he can roll down the window. He gives her a grunt. "Well, what do you think?" He sarcastically retorted.

"I think you did, sunflower. I think you really did."

"That was a rhetorical question. And stop calling me that." Sunlight paves its way through the open window and directly into Mickey's grumpy face. It must've been way past morning. "What time is it anyway?"

Anna withdraws her head partially to check her watch and returns to face him again. "Uh, a few minutes past 1pm. You're kinda running a bit late on your first day of your job. I mean, kinda."

Mickey shakes his head frantically as he straightens his shit out and reaches for a clean set of clothes. Of course, he'd fucked up again. Its his first day in this new job and the mighty boss herself had to come collect him for work. Exhaustion had crept up and into every single inch of his body last night, and thats probably why he overslept. "Fuck, sorry man."

Anna pulls her torso out of the car and she crosses her arms, "Yeah, _man_ , go change your clothes now. I still have to teach you all the basics and make you familiarize with the tools and mixes before I let you go man the area by your own. Tonight's going to be a heavy night; its our weekly Girls' night, and we need you to doll up and be a sight for sore eyes. So better get your ass up to work, _man_. That ass is gonna bring all the girls and gays a-coming our bar's way."

Mickey thinks its too early to dwell on her comment and decides to ignore it. From the little of the time they've spent together he'd gathered that its easier to just give in to her retorts and ignore it.

Turns out the work hadn't been much of a chore to him. He was pretty familiar with this kind of environment, and he was in sync with the vibe of the bar. His job was mainly composed of mixing numerous beverages and watering down the alcohol if the customer's already being an inebriated, violent asshole. Anna also had told him there'll be a few times that someone will ask him to recreate a drink they drank from fucking eons ago, so he'll just have to be use his creativity and mix whatever the hell he wanted to mix. She'd recounted how no one had ever complained about this since most of the times, they'd be too fucking hammered to even potentially conjure an argument about which nectar is which. Alcohol is alcohol anyway, and Mickey had laughed at this because he knew this from experience. Alcohol is one of the words you'd automatically associate with a Milkovich if you ever get the unfortunate chance of passing by one. Other words are _incarceration_ , _man, they fucking reek_ and _Angelo, stay close to me and get away from them_.

The bar had a certain je ne sais quoi that had Mickey relaxing quite easily, almost as if a weight has been partially lifted off his sagged and tired shoulders. Anna's presence helped too; the camarederie that flowered between them resembled the one he had with Damon. They minded their own business and from time to time they would trade quips that'll make the other laugh. He had learned that Anna gained this bar just recently since its past owner, her uncle had just passed away from a fucking myeloproliferative leukemia or some shit. She'd told him that her uncle had been a long-time ventriloquist before so his hands had always been on a constant state of fidgeting, and he'd brainwashed kid Anna into thinking that touching her in her private places would make his hands stop from twitching. But now that she's a bit older and had started to gain consciousness, she'd taught himself how to fight back so she could never let her disgusting cumstain of an uncle to ever go near her again without a fucking roundkick against his testicles or a concussion-inducing headbutt. Mickey had found himself throbbing with a prism of familiar anger, one that almost threw him off, and at the same time he'd also felt a certain kinship with her which quickly bloomed into adoration for her braveness.

She hadn't been too curious and inquisitive when it came to Mickey's past, and he was immensely thankful for it. He'd been taking sips of the alcohol so he was a bit drunk off his ass too, and he was sure he'd spill everything about the infamy of being a Milkovich scalawag and a local prison escapee what with having no control of his big ass mouth. He'd decided he wouldn't tell her yet about that part of his life. He couldn't handle the risk of losing this job, and in a way, losing Anna herself. It had been so nice to hear again what his voice sounded, after spending so many months alone and with just the foreboding voice of his thoughts. The blanket of silence always drives him to the brink of insanity. Now he felt alight, he felt as if there could be a chance out there for him and he'd step out of his way this time and unleash an effort to go and grasp it.

It's 11pm, and the party's on fucking full blast. The dancing strobes of lights showered all the sweaty bodies gyrating in the middle of the dance floor. The trashy pop track booms from all five corners of the room, prompting each and everyone within a radius to at least sway to it. From his spot, he could see the bodies coalesce with one another, and he couldn't tell where one starts and one ends. The carefree vibe of the area was very liberating for him, and it was as if he'd forgotten all about Ian for a second.

Mickey had been also horny. Much to his chagrin, the dingy bar had been filled with women in silly tops and petticoats that night. He'd wanted to find an easy lay, some nameless, horny guy who could give him a quick release. He'd be satiated for a second, but it wouldn't have held a competition against the intimacy he'd shared with Ian the past few weeks. He'd gave up searching for an easy target that night, and he'd walked back to the parking lot with a heavy gait and a cloud of misery hovering above him, and masturbated to the thought of Ian's flushed, tight body and his porcelain skin in contact with his.

After he'd shot multiple ribbons of come into his clothed stomach, he'd cried himself to sleep like a fucking fairy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how to write Anna omfg hope you didn't find her annoying lmfao


End file.
